The choice was clear. I had to see her. Before I realized what I was doing, my feet were on the floor, my legs were carrying me from the silence of the test room.
I didn’t start breathing again until I was in the foyer. Leaning against the heavy wooden door, my cell phone in my hand, I pulled out the card she’d given me. She’d be on the way to the airport by now, I figured.
I typed: Justine, I don’t know if you’ll get this, but I have to tell you. I need you. Always have. I’ve been stubborn, resentful & full of pride. But my heart never changed. I’ve never loved anyone else but you.
I hit send.
I waited for a minute, heart thudding. Two. Nothing. Cold fear numbed the pulse at my throat.
My thumb hovered over the send button, unable to type the next message. Can you? Will you?
No answer. Maybe she had missed it? My head thudded against the brick walls of the university hall. Test-takers were now spilling out of the chamber, milling about the hallway, putting on their coats, pulling out their cell phones. It hurt to breathe. Had I walked away from my medical boards for nothing?
The entire way home, I checked my phone every two minutes. Maybe, she was in the air by now. Maybe, maybe she hadn’t received my text. Or her phone was turned off. Or she was waiting, trying to figure out her answer. Or. Or.
Hours passed. No reply. I checked to see how many bars I had on my reception. I checked to see if the network was cooperating. There were no problems. There was nothing. And inevitably my mind strayed to the most believable explanation: that she hadn’t meant what she had said about wanting to see me again. Or that she had changed her mind. Maybe she felt, like I once had, that the past was too painful to revisit.
Back in my apartment, I grabbed a beer and twisted the cap so viciously that it cut my palm.
My cell phone rang and I nearly dropped the bottle. I raced to answer it, my voice breathless.
“Mark! How’d you do on your test?”
My breath hitched and a pain radiated through my chest. Kathy.
“Hey, sis.” I fought to keep the disappointment from my voice.
“Hey, I’ve been meaning to call you since Thanksgiving. I—well, I have a confession to make.”
“Let me guess. You defaced one of your own books to send me a page in the mail anonymously.”
Silence for two beats.
“How’d you know?”
“When I was there for Thanksgiving I saw the book in the den. Your copy is missing page 308. You pinched one of my SASEs from my job applications to send it.”
She sighed. “Well, I’ve never been good at being sneaky, have I?”
“Not really,” I said, hoping my curt reply would put her off becoming chatty. The last thing I wanted to do right now was discuss this with Kathy.
“I’m sorry, Mark. I just—I—I know how much you loved her once. That kind of love is a rare gift, you know. And the resentment over losing it was tearing you up inside. You two were so …”
“Sis, could we talk about this another time? I can’t—can’t really talk at the moment. Can I call you back later?” I was still hoping against all reason for a call from Justine. Or a text. Or a smoke signal. Or some other sign of acknowledgment whatsoever. Please don’t let it be silence. I could take anything but that, though it might be what I deserved.
“I just wish … wish that it had all been for something.”
So did I. After we said goodbye, I closed my eyes and put down the phone. I chugged the entire bottle of beer and snatched up another. I was on my third when the doorbell rang.
I suddenly remembered that I’d invited Eric over to celebrate the end of exams. I snapped open the door without looking in the peephole.
It wasn’t Eric.
Justine.
Tears in her eyes, on her cheeks. Her cell phone in her hand. My heart stopped beating until she spoke.
“Mark.” It was a hoarse whisper. A plea. An exultation.
I would later learn that she had gone to the airport early and checked her baggage. It had taken her time to retrieve her belongings, to fill out papers and speak with an airline official about pulling out of her flight.
I said nothing as I watched her from the doorway. Then, I took her into my arms, held her close. Her tight sobs in my ear struck arrows to the core of me.
“I always loved you,” I said.
“I never stopped. But why? Why now? After everything …”
I backed into my apartment with her still in my arms. We kissed. She tasted the same, and different—a trace of coffee and that cinnamon gum she loved. She tasted better. Our lips met in quiet understanding, mutual forgiveness, passionate reunion.
When we finished, I rested my forehead against hers, her question still hanging between us: Why now?
I took a breath to finally respond. I hoped that she would understand my answer. “Jane Austen made me do it.”
BRENNA AUBREY has always sought comfort in good books and the long, involved stories she weaves in her head. She has been in love with words and language from a young age. This led her to study her two favorite languages in college: French and English. To further her fluency in French, she was lucky enough to live in France for a year and a half.
Brenna loves reading Jane Austen, whose Persuasion is, of course, her favorite novel. She also loves to write historical romance and epic fantasy fiction. She is a city girl with a nature lover’s heart. She therefore finds herself out in green open spaces any chance she can get.
Brenna is mommy to two little kids and teacher to many more older kids. She currently resides in Southern California with her family. She is in the final stages of her work-in-progress, a novel-length Regency historical romance.
www.brennaaubrey.net
@brennaaubrey on Twitter
Frank is made.— He was yesterday raised to the Rank of Commander, & appointed to the Petterel Sloop, now at Gibraltar.
—Jane Austen, letter to her sister, Cassandra,
28 December 1798
21 March 1800
“Lieutenant Glover’s greetings, Captain—and the watch has spotted sails approaching from the northwest.”
Francis William Austen set down the letter he had been reading when the midshipman entered his cabin. The remains of his breakfast lay pushed aside on the small dining table, awaiting clearance by the steward. He had eaten late, having gone on deck shortly after rising to observe a French brig that had first come into their sights yesterday, and that had escaped a volley of British fire by taking refuge under the cover of a battery on shore. After assuring himself in the hazy morning light that their “chase” had not managed to sneak past them during the night, and giving orders to set a northeast-by-north course that kept their quarry in view, Austen had returned to his cabin to reread the latest dispatches over a lukewarm meal of ham and porridge. Fortunately, the coffee held its heat, and he had just poured a second cup from the pot to combat the chill of the day’s early spring gales.
“How many?”
“Three, sir.” The junior officer’s eyes were bright, his face eager. At fourteen, he saw every foreign sail as a potential opportunity to make his fortune or distinguish himself for promotion while advancing the cause of the Crown. In truth, so did most of the Royal Navy.
“And the brig?”
“Still skulking alongshore.”
“Thank you, Mr. Phillips. Tell Mr. Glover that I shall join him on the forecastle directly.”
Left to himself once more, Captain Austen indulged in a last sip of coffee before rising from the table to resume his coat. It hung from a peg near one of the two cannons that dominated the cabin’s sides—an ever-present reminder that despite the relative luxury of his accommodations compared to those of the rest of the ship’s company, he was nevertheless aboard a sloop of war.
The Petterel was a fast, reliable vessel of sixteen guns—twenty-four, if one included the eight carronades mounted on the quarterdeck and forecastle. At full complement she carri
ed one hundred twenty-one men, boys, officers, and marines, trained and disciplined to exacting standards with measurable results: last June, they had proved their merit and valor as part of a fleet action under Vice-Admiral Lord Keith in which they captured a French squadron of five ships-of-the-line near Toulon. Now on blockade duty in the western Mediterranean Sea, the Petterel was under general orders to intercept any vessel that came in her path—whether naval or private—thus crippling French commerce and thwarting Napoleon’s attempts to supply and reinforce the army he had left behind in Egypt.
Austen hoped the Petterel would prove the making of him—the means by which he would rise from a mere commander addressed as “Captain” out of courtesy, to a post-captain: title, right epaulette, and all. Making post was the most significant promotion of a naval officer’s career, the date from which the seniority that determined all further advancement was established. A full captain could command larger ships for better pay—frigates and ships-of-the-line; perhaps serve as flag captain to an admiral. Until that day came, however, Austen was content to command the Petterel to the best of his ability, to carry out his duty knowing that the smaller engagements of his sloop contributed to the greater efforts of the war that all in His Majesty’s Navy strove and sacrificed to win.
As he adjusted the single epaulette on his left shoulder and smoothed dark blue lapels over his white waistcoat, his gaze strayed to the letter he had been reading when the midshipman interrupted him.
My dear Frank,
I just today rec’d your letter of July 27th, and expect this reply will be more traveled than you by the time you read it.…
The missive had been forwarded to him along with the dispatch packet he had received last evening, and was from Jane, his younger sister and most faithful correspondent. Separated by little more than a year in age, they shared the dark eyes and slender nose common to the Austen family, but more important, they shared a determination to stay in contact as best they could despite the obstacles of distance and war. Other family members wrote him as well, but Jane’s tidings were rendered with sharp observation and wit that was uniquely hers. The letters often took months to find him and sometimes arrived out of order, but he treasured every one, for they were his connection to the people with whom he was not “Captain Austen,” but “Frank,” and to the home he had left when not quite twelve to enter the Naval College at Portsmouth. Now just one month shy of six-and-twenty, he had already served in the navy more than half his life.
Frank put away Jane’s closely written pages, and with them, thoughts of the family he had not seen since before taking command of the Petterel in Gibraltar thirteen months earlier. More urgent matters demanded his attention. The letter joined others in his sea chest, which, like all of the room’s furniture, would be removed to the hold if the decks were cleared for action. The dispatches he secured on his person in an inner pocket of his coat. From the windows of his cabin beneath the quarterdeck, he could not see the sails Mr. Glover had reported, but he could hear the north wind, which blew strong today. With full canvas, the unknown vessels could be within range of the Petterel before noon.
He reached for his hat and settled the bicorne over dark hair worn closely cropped in a futile attempt to control its curls in the Mediterranean humidity. “Captain Austen” once more, he headed for the door.
Three ships. If friendly, they and the Petterel would exchange news.
If not, they would exchange fire.
Upon emerging from his cabin, Austen raised his gaze to the Petterel’s sails before proceeding to the forecastle. The jib and driver had been set, per his earlier orders. Mr. Glover, the sloop’s first lieutenant, was high up the mainmast observing the approaching ships through a telescope. Austen felt a moment of mild envy, and fleetingly entertained the notion of climbing the ratlines himself to have a look. It had been some time since he had enjoyed the view from the platform and the soaring sensation of being carried not by a ship but by the wind—the closest man could come to experiencing flight. But he resisted the impulse and instead went to confer with Mr. Thompson, the ship’s master, while waiting for Mr. Glover to descend the ropes.
“Tacking again, sir,” Mr. Thompson said. “West by northwest, half north.”
Austen nodded. They had been tacking all night and through the morning, zigzagging to move against winds that had blown at gale force after dark and had diminished only slightly at daybreak. The approaching ships, in contrast, sailed with the wind behind them and could therefore hold a steady course. Windward of the Petterel, they also had the weather gage—an advantage should they bear down on the sloop to attack.
But the Petterel had Mr. Thompson.
The sloop’s chief navigator and senior warrant officer, John Thompson possessed a gift for exploiting any ship’s full capabilities, and his handling of the Petterel was truly masterful. He knew her strengths and subtleties, and could coax her to perform beyond expectations whether assailed by wind, rain, or enemy fire. Austen looked at the sky, hoping they would not experience all three simultaneously today. Fortunately, the haze was breaking up, revealing patches of sunlight and clear blue.
“Steer us toward the approaching sails, but not too far from the brig,” he said, glancing at the vessel still taunting them from under the battery’s protection. “We have not finished with her yet.”
An answering spark lit the master’s eyes. “Aye, Captain—not if there is aught I can do to trouble her.”
Austen crossed the main deck and climbed the steps to the forecastle, where Mr. Glover joined him a minute later. As first lieutenant, Mr. Glover was Austen’s second-in-command, and while it was the Admiralty who had appointed him, it was John Glover who had quickly demonstrated himself worthy of the commission. He possessed intelligence, good judgment, and honor, and could be relied upon to remain steady in a crisis. A ship as small as the Petterel could not afford to have a first officer who was anything less, and neither could Austen. In their few months of working together in combat and out, commander and first lieutenant already had developed a rapport in which Mr. Glover often could anticipate Austen’s decisions before he even voiced them.
He greeted his lieutenant and gestured toward the cluster of sails ahead. “It appears we have company approaching.”
“Indeed, sir.” Mr. Glover’s face was reddened by the strong winds aloft and the exertion of traversing the rigging—an activity that required stamina even in calm. Though he wore his hair tied back, the cold spring wind had loosed light brown strands that now wisped round his angular countenance as the two men gazed across the bow. “Five sails.”
“Five? I was told three.”
“Three of them are closer than the others—the watch observed them first. They are small vessels. But I thought I saw another sail on the horizon, so I went up to have a better look. Two more ships follow in the distance.”
Austen scanned the waves, and indeed spied the other two ships—tiny dots—now that Mr. Glover had advised him of their existence. At their present distance, his unaided eyes could not confirm the flag colors of any of the vessels. “French?”
“Mais oui.” Mr. Glover grinned. “The closest three, at least.”
Austen could not help returning the smile. The Petterel routinely encountered merchantmen, Spanish ships, and an occasional Dutch vessel, but the only thing more satisfying than destroying a French ship was capturing it.
“And the other two?”
“I could not discern.”
He took the glass from his lieutenant so that he could study the convoy for himself. The telescope caught the glare of sunlight glancing off the bay before he settled its view on the two clusters of sails. Two barques and a ketch sped along at the fore. “The farther ships appear to be a corvette and a xebec,” he said.
“I thought so, as well, though I was not entirely confident at this distance.”
“Keep a close watch on all five. Were I a gambling man, I would wager the corvette and xebec are French, too, pe
rhaps part of the convoy.” Austen handed the glass back to Mr. Glover. “Surely the nearest three have sighted us by now. Have they changed speed or altered course?”
“They show no signs of concern,” Mr. Glover said. “We are close enough to shore that they might take us for a friendly vessel.”
“Very good.” That had been Austen’s intent. Though the Petterel had spent most of the autumn and winter cruising near Minorca, presently the sloop patrolled the Bay of Marseilles with the Mermaid, a thirty-two-gun frigate captained by Robert Oliver. Last evening, Oliver had directed Austen to keep the Petterel close to shore so as to block the brig’s path round Cape Croisette and deceive other enemy ships that happened along. It was a tactic Austen had used on previous occasions with great success—his record of enemy vessels captured or destroyed was already impressive—but it was not without risk. Nature guarded the coast with rocks, while Napoleon defended it with batteries.
“They might simply pass us by,” Mr. Glover said.
“They might.” French ships tended to concentrate on completing their missions rather than deviate to pursue unexpected opportunities—which was why Britain, not the Republic, dominated the seas. “If we allow them.”
Austen studied the convoy, which grew larger as the distance between them closed. The barques would offer little, if any, resistance; they might not even be armed. When attacked, most small vessels—indeed, most French vessels in general—attempted to outrun their pursuers. If part of a convoy, they took themselves out of the way and left the fight to the larger ships assigned to protect them. The ketch was a greater source of concern. If the heavier two-masted vessel proved to be merely a cargo carrier, it might not put up much of a struggle, but that type of craft was sometimes used as a bomb-ship.
The more distant xebec and corvette would definitely mount a defense, and together might even seize the initiative and attack the Petterel first—especially with the weather gage to their benefit. The xebec probably carried half a dozen guns firing six-pound shot. The corvette would be armed similarly to the Petterel, with fourteen or more six-pounders, and perhaps a couple heavier guns.
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